


The Peruvian Strike

by NaytheUsurper



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballet, Ballet Dancer Hermione Granger, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Consent, Dirty Talk, Draco Malfoy & Ginny Weasley Friendship, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Height Differences, Height Kink, Quidditch, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Sexual Tension, Size Difference, Small Hermione Granger, Smut, Tall Draco Malfoy, tol/smol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaytheUsurper/pseuds/NaytheUsurper
Summary: The Wimbourne Wasps experiment with Quidditch innovation under Oliver Wood’s tutelage. Wood, desperate to defeat his former team the Schemers of Skye, enlists casual ballerina Hermione Granger to whip his inflexible chaser into fighting form. Dramione.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 24
Kudos: 395
Collections: Dramione Height Difference  2020, Quidditch Stories





	The Peruvian Strike

**Author's Note:**

> For Musyc's Dramione Height Difference 2020 fest.
> 
> A thousand thanks to Grace_Lou_Freebush for her invaluable beta work.

High above the magically trimmed grass of the Wimborne Wasps’ Quidditch pitch, chasers Ginevra Weasley, Draco Malfoy and Jeremy Stretton rehearsed for their upcoming game against the Schemers of Skye. Head Trainer Wood was determined to defeat his former teammates and had insisted on a rigorous training regime. 

Draco watched with intent eyes as the magically enhanced training quaffle arched through the air towards Ginny. As Wood had instructed in detail, she raised herself up from the seat of the broom, rested the edges of her toes in the deep set pedals and stretched her palm upwards, poised to strike the ball towards Stretton, who hovered right below the middle goalpost. Right as the ball went soaring after the impact of her palm, Ginny wailed out in pain. She collapsed back on her broom and glided unsteadily towards the ground. Draco immediately followed with Stretton hot on his heels while Wood charmed the training quaffle to return to its chest across the field.

“That was a right stunner, Gin!” Wood shouted excitedly in his Scottish brogue while he jogged over to Ginny. She sat on the ground miserably, clutching her right thigh, rocking back and forth like a lunatic. Draco towered over her with his eyebrow quirked.

“Graceful, she-Weasel,” he mocked affectionately. 

“Fuck off, ferret. Seeing your pointy fucking face doesn’t help with the pain.” 

Draco heard Stretton mutter from behind him that he’d go fetch the medic from the office, no doubt wanting to avoid their good-natured antagonism. For a professional athlete, Stretton was surprisingly sensitive to rows and banter, as Draco had quickly learned after joining the team. He had signed on two seasons ago, taking up the previous chaser’s mantle as the brute force chaser against Stretton’s and Weasley’s agile playstyles. Out of respect for the team dynamics, Draco tamed his tongue considerably when in Stretton’s presence, something Wood had once drunkenly thanked him for during a celebration after a big win over the Manchester Mudslingers.

As Wood approached, he gently asked Ginny what happened. 

“I dunno! I just - I just reached out like we’ve been rehearsing, and I - I felt something give in my thigh.” She hissed through clenched teeth, gesturing at her right leg. “It feels like someone snapped a rubber band inside my muscle!” 

Oliver tutted in reply and waved their medic, Foale, over. It quickly became clear that further practicing was out of the question, and Draco was soon dismissed by Wood.

“Feel better Weaslette, can’t take down the nemesis without your bony arse on a broom. Apptel is even more atrocious of a chaser than you are!” He threw over his shoulder with a good-natured smirk before trudging off to get his gear, musing on potential strategies to combat Apptel’s selfish playstyle. He was certain, without looking, that Ginny had sent him a plebeian signal behind his back.

_____________

“So…you got injured by simply standing up on your broom?” Hermione shook her head at Ginny’s despondent expression. 

“Yeah, it’s kind of fucked actually. Oliver’s both upset and blaming himself, which is the most frustrating combination in the known universe,” she said as she flopped back against the pillows Harry had delicately arranged around her before he’d left for work that morning. 

“Why were you even standing up on your broom? I thought the general consensus is that bums in seats is a fundamental safety rule in the big leagues?” Hermione asked as she brought her favourite mug - the one with the Gryffindor crest emblazoned on the side - to her lips.

“Yes, kind of, but not always. Sometimes the risks are worth it, and Oliver is convinced, in spite of my injury, that this is our ticket to beating the Schemers of Skye and securing us a spot in the semi-finals.” 

“What is?” Hermione shifted around the foot of the bed to better face Ginny, tucking her short legs together. 

Ginny opened and closed her mouth twice before replying, “He calls it the ‘Peruvian Strike.’ Y’remember the weeks that the terror that is McLaggen was coaching us?” 

Hermione nodded with a sour expression, remembering his tactless flirtations earlier in the year when she’d picked up Ginny from the pitch for dinner. 

“He’d stepped in ‘cause Oliver went to watch the games in the SACT – Oh! The South American Continental Tournament,” Ginny elaborated at Hermione’s confused expression. “While he was there, Oliver saw the Peru team pull off a new manoeuvre in the game against Brazil, the top contender in the league. He said it was used with great success, so he wanted to implement it for us. He’s big on ‘innovation in the game.’” Ginny imitated Wood’s accent on the last four words, obviously ambivalent at best about this new manoeuvre. “According to him, the Peruvian coach’s winning strategy is to go to various muggle sporting events to learn and adapt gameplays and strategies for Quidditch, which has lit a match in Wood’s wound up arse. This Peruvian Strike is apparently adapted from some game called lolleyvall.” 

Hermione’s brows furrowed for a moment before realising and correcting, “Volleyball, it’s called volleyball.” 

“Yeah, that…” Ginny replied, pouting and miserable. 

“Are you going to be fit to compete in time? How is Wood going to ensure this won’t happen again?” Hermione mused. 

“Well, Foale said my muscle was pulled severely and got me fixed right quick, so I’m just stiff and sore as is.” Ginny rubbed her thigh carefully. “He warned that I’ll be prone to reinjury if I’m not careful and that I can’t overexert myself. He’s going to talk to the physical therapist we have a contract with and see what can be done to prevent that.” 

Hermione nodded sympathetically before standing up. “Hope you feel better, Gin! I’ll see you when I get back home. I will swing by the shops on the way back and get you a pint of your favourite gelato.” 

Ginny lips quirked as she buried herself further into her formidable pillow fortress.

Hermione dumped the rest of her tea out before leaving the mug in the sink, the lion emblem roaring in protest. She took the stairs at double her usual pace to gather her dance gear, not wanting to be late to teach her evening class at Madame Mayhilda’s Ballet Studio. The studio was located perfectly, just off of Archivist’s Lane in wizarding East London, right around the corner from her day job as a curse breaker for the Museum of Magical Objects and Art. 

_____________

“Let me get this straight, her injury was caused by her lack of flexibility?” Draco sniggered as he stretched out his long legs out under the table in the small team meeting room, internally cursing the miniscule chairs. 

“Yeah, like you’re much better you lumbering git!” Ginny snarked back, seemingly slightly embarrassed by this revelation.

“I see The Boy Who Died Twice isn’t working you hard enough between the sheets since you’re so stiff,” he fired back, smirking slightly before adding, “Poor sod,” in a mocking tone. 

Ginny tossed a beater figurine from the strategy board, and hit Draco right between the eyes. He rubbed the sting away with his fingers as it clattered loudly on the meeting table.

“Come off it, Malfoy.” Wood snatched the figurine off the table and put it back on the magical projection of the pitch before carrying on, “Foale said we need to get you all in limber form to successfully pull off the Peruvian Strike.” 

Draco rolled his eyes at Wood’s adoring pronunciation of the manoeuvre. 

“Right, and that entails even more hours training? We better get paid overtime!” Stretton, ever the galleon-grubber interjected. 

“Aye! Aye! I’ve already cleared it with payroll; we’re getting on ‘til at least the game against the Schemers,” Wood gleefully replied, no doubt excited about having roped the upper echelons of the club into his plans. “Agnieszka said my saving grace was that I only asked for overtime for you three. If all goes well, I’ll harass them about the rest of the team, and we’ll have you all fit to be prima ballerina by next season. Tomorrow, six sharp.”

_____________

“Stretton’s a right menace,” Ginny moaned, burying her spoon deeper in the fourth pint of Grimelda’s Gooseberry Gelato that month, breaking her strict Quidditch diet. “I don’t get it, it’s been four weeks and there has literally been no improvement in my flexibility, while he’s off putting his fucking knee behind his neck. How do you even do this shit?” 

“Well, are you executing the stretches correctly?” Hermione gently pressed. “Are you going deep enough and holding for long enough periods of time and resting in between sets of stretches?” 

Ginny scrunched her nose. “I’m not sure, the PT has insane rates, so Oliver only kept her around for two of our sessions. I- I think I am?” she replied uncertainly. She grimaced and turned from the telly screen to glance at Hermione’s face before perking up and teasing, “Y’know you should see Malfoy trying to stretch. He’s awfully stiff for a man that makes fun of me for my inflexibility. He grunts like he’s being ridden. Hard.” 

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, and her eyes fluttered around the room, only encouraging Ginny to prod further. 

“I know you think he’s fit, Hermione. I distinctly remember your brain breaking when you walked in on us doing pull ups, hanging from our brooms, and I know he put in some extra reps when he saw you watching! Don’t act like we’re fifth years anymore; you never indulge me in tittering about sex and men!” she whined. 

Hermione rolled her shoulders and shot back all too fast, “You know that is because I don’t enjoy hearing what my almost-brother likes in the bedroom!” 

“Well then, let’s talk about your sex life.” Ginny raised her eyebrows, delighted that Hermione had walked right into her trap. 

“There’s not much to say, Gin, honestly,” Hermione muttered with increasingly flushed cheeks as she collected the dirty spoons and dumped them in the sink before flopping back on the couch. 

“C’mon, you get along like strawberries and cream these days. He’s wicked tall, clever and fit. You’re gorgeous, whip smart and well read. It’s a match made by Merlin, and you know it.” 

Hermione hummed as a reluctant non-answer before she turned back to the programme on the telly.

_____________

“Where’s the tutu, Granger? I had such high expectations.” A sharp voice reverberated through the large, freeform exercise room of the Wimborne Wasps’ stadium. 

Hermione glanced over her shoulder to drink in his sinewy, tall form before turning back to her charmwork, extending the wooden ballet barre piece by piece, attaching it to the floor to ceiling mirrors that lined the room.

“Good evening, Malfoy. I heard your stretching form is appalling. Wood was desperate enough to call in an ancient favour from little, old me, so it must be lamentable at best,” she teased as she looked past her own reflection to gaze at his mirrored face. 

“Ah, well, how can you be sure this wasn’t just an elaborate Slytherin ploy to get you here in this tight little getup?” He smirked, meeting her eyes in the mirror. 

She willed her heartbeat down and turned to gesture at the stack of training mats off behind the squat rack. “Right well, here’s the list of stretches from the physical therapist…”

_____________

“You don’t have your legs placed wide enough for the stretch to be effective,” Hermione stated, resting her hand on the wooden barre while trying to keep her eyes off his training trousers, batting away thoughts on how well they outlined his thighs and hinted at his size. 

“Easy for a tiny little thing like you to say, you’re bloody barmy if you think I can get any wider,” Draco snarled, concealing his embarrassment for having progressed so little in five weeks. 

Hermione sighed and rolled her tongue between her teeth, thinking back on Gin’s words the previous week, when she’d called her out on her ever-growing attraction to Malfoy. Gathering all her Gryffindor courage, she took a deep breath and evenly replied, “Let me help you then.” 

She delicately padded over to where he sat, flat boned with his legs stretched wide in a V formation. Musing on how thankful she was for her very recent pedicure, she kneeled down between his strong, long legs, stretched out her shorter ones and planted the soles of her petite feet against the middle of his calves, exerting gentle pressure outwards. 

Draco swallowed and sucked on his cheeks before looking intently down into her eyes. She held out her hands, palms up, and gestured for him to grab on. His hands dwarfed hers, calloused and steady, as her teeth gnawed on her lower lip. She steeled herself before leaning back and pulling him slowly forward; his muscles flinched slightly, but she held fast, maintaining the intense eye contact he had established. 

After a couple of beats he strained, “Salazar’s sack, you’re fucking killing me Granger,” obviously battling with his knees so they wouldn’t buckle upwards. 

She gave him a sly smile and eased the pressure slightly before leaning over to look at the list of recommended stretches from the physical therapist.

“Building flexibility is an art of patience, Draco. For the next one, you’re going to have to lay down, flat on your back.” 

He complied with a smug expression as she admired the sheer breadth of him, completely concealing the mat he laid upon with his wide shoulders. He obediently lifted his right leg when instructed, and she grabbed with both hands just above his knee and softly pressed his leg down to his shoulder. Her heart rate spiked at the feeling of his rock hard thighs beneath her hands, her growing dampness penetrating through her leotard. 

He grimaced and grunted under his breath when she found the correct pressure, trying not to look down to admire how his form-fitting training shirt outlined his muscled torso. “No more,” he gasped and lifted his left leg while easing the other down to repeat the process on the opposite side. 

Her gaze trailed from his face, roving his imposing form while she pressed down cautiously. When she caught his eyes again, they were heated and dark. Lightning fast, she felt his leg escape her grasp as his large hands caught her waist and pulled her down, crushing her breasts to his chest as his lips claimed hers. 

He whispered against her lower lip, asking for her consent and she wound her hands in his hair in response. Their tongues met languidly as he stroked one hand from her waist up her back, tangling in the curls at the nape of her neck while trapping her firmly against him with the other. She acutely felt how small she was in comparison to his large frame, her hips held fast against his taut abdominals. He groaned something incomprehensible into her mouth as she kissed him harder and ground her wetness against him.

He ravaged her mouth while his palm slowly stroked from her hip over her arse, sliding underneath the mesh rehearsal skirt to touch the soft fabric of her leotard before his long fingers curled into the give of her cheeks. He broke their kiss to look into her eyes and asked heatedly, “May I?” 

Her curls bobbed in response before she leant down to capture his lips again, coaxing a moan from low in his throat. His fingers trailed the edge of her leotard, now completely soaked with her arousal, before sliding underneath, teasing her cunt with light strokes. 

“Been thinking about this for years, Granger,” his voice low in her ear. “I fantasised about the prim and proper head girl that always sat in the library with her thighs clenched together.” 

She whimpered in reply, rolling her hips against his fingers in search of something more while his lips trailed her delicate jaw. She felt his hips undulate against nothing, rocking her small form harder against his fingers. Her breath panting and staccato. His hand, still clenched in her hair, pulled her face sharply towards his and claimed her mouth once – twice before he deprived her of his teasing touch. He grabbed her hips with both hands and pulled the cradle of her hips lower to grind against his cock. 

She sat straight and slid against his hardness again and again, the softness of her wet leotard dragging against her clit. His calloused hands roved up from her hips, coasting over her breasts, pulling the straps down her shoulders and leaving the material pooling at her waist. Her eyelids grew heavy as his fingers rolled over her hard nipples. 

“More, harder,” she panted and his fingers tightened, his cock twitching against her. 

“Granger, are you going to come all over me?” his voice fervid and wanting. “Look at yourself, look in the mirror and come for me like a good girl, Hermione.” 

Her hips ground harder against his cock before obeying his command, tearing a long drawn out whine from swollen lips as she tossed her head back. He pulled himself upwards, dragging his lips against hers lazily before rolling them over, her back now against the thin yet cushioned mat. His hands stroked down to push the wet material of her leotard aside. Looking intently at her soaking cunt, he dragged his trousers down and slid his hands up her soft thighs, tipped her legs towards her shoulders exposing her to his heated gaze. 

“Say yes,” he groaned as his cock twitched, close to her entrance. 

“Yes, fuck, yes, please.” 

He filled her to the brim and swallowed thickly before driving into her again and again.

His thumbs moved to stroke over the swollen lips of her cunt as he bent down to groan reverently in her ear. “The feel of your pretty, pink cunt clenching around my cock is exquisite.” 

Her hips bucked at his utterance, moaning wantonly. “Again. More.” 

He gently pulled her nether lips apart, teasing her clit and watching himself disappear into her. 

“Like this? You want me to stroke you just like this?” 

She whined and tightened around him as she dug her nails into his arse urging him on. He stroked her faster, thrusting deeply, whispering filthy nothings about how he‘d dreamed of this. Of having his cock in her mouth, of licking her folds and taking her tight little cunt from behind, filling her with his come. 

Her back bowed as she came again, her mouth open and lush, begging for something to fill it. He moved his hands to clench her arse, lifting her up and driving back down hard with his hips until his thick cock pulsed inside of her, finally fulfilling one of her long held fantasies. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so fucking perfect,” he grunted in her ear as his orgasm waned. “Want to come back to…stretch some more at my place?” he teased as his hands stroked her sides slowly.

_____________

_Dear Basilio,_

_My sincerest thanks for the inspiration. My team decimated the Schemers of Skye all thanks to your muggle sports strategies. We‘re through to the semi-finals in the UK Cup. I hope I‘ll get a chance to show you what I‘ve got up my sleeve from the sport of curling at the World Cup next year!_

_Cheers to you mate,_  
_Oliver Wood_  
_Head Trainer of the Wimbourne Wasps_


End file.
